Page 47 of Beneath the Dirt

Fucking holy prick.

The guard says nothing to me as a mystified face warps his features.

I need to get to the other side of this gate. I need to see him. To end this drawn-out game between us.

Desperation infects my ability to think straight. “You don’t understand. This is my home,” I blurt, regretting every fucking syllable.

“Your home?” The confusion in his voice is quickly overshadowed by him piecing together the puzzle I so foolishly helped him with.

He takes another step back, looking more scared than anything. “Holy shit. I know I smoked before my shift, but how could I be so stupid? It’syou.” The baton falls to the ground as he nervously fumbles around his belt, trying to grab his gun, but I lunge towards him, beating him to it. “You’re Pastor Rainey’s daughter,” he stutters, making my blood boil at the realization and having to be reminded that at one time I was, in fact, his stepdaughter. But I lost that title the second I lost connection to this place and to him.

The pistol grip of his Glock practically magnetizes to my hand. I lift my hand, driving his gun down on his face, hitting him with the side of the barrel. He winces in pain, but not enough for my liking, so I wind up once again and slam down on his face harder. A shrill cry of pain leaks from his mouth this time.Much better.

Keeping the edge of the barrel at his bloody temple, I bring myself to his ear. “Stepdaughter,” I correct him.

“Don’t shoot me,” he pleads.

“Of course not,” I giggle, digging the tip further into his temple. I reach over, grabbing his knife from the leather holder on his belt. “That’d be too loud, and we don’t want to draw any unwanted attention.”

Confusion mars his face, but it’s quickly replaced by stunnedagony as the tip of his own blade glides across his throat with the ease of a bow on a finely tuned violin.

Spit gurgles and bubbles in his mouth as blood leaks from the open wound.

“Shh.” Annoyed with his noises, I guide his mouth shut with the bloodied tip of the knife, unintentionally nicking his lips. Oops.

Stepping back, not wanting to get any of his mess on me, he falls face down in a violent thud on the ground.

“Sorry, it was nothing personal. It’s just important that I get to the other side.” I nudge my head to the gate.

I’m about to get up to go to the control panel to press the button, but my book pokes out and the guilt trickles in. I kneel beside him, taking my book out from where it’s tucked in his jacket. Opening it to the title page, I dip my finger into his slit neck, just enough to get some of his blood on it so I can sign my name. “I know you would’ve preferred a pen,” I say to his lifeless body, “but I would’ve preferred you let me in the first time I asked. Well, now you have one of a kind. I don’t think anyone can say they’ve had one of my books signed in their own blood before.” I slam the book shut, tucking it back into his jacket. “Lucky you.”

But I'm not lucky. Before I open the gate, I have to figure out what the fuck to do with him. I look over at the security shed he was in. That would be easy if it wasn’t the first thing people who drive by will see, so of course that won’t work. I preemptively roll my eyes, knowing that the only feasible option is my trunk. So much for not getting dirty.

Holstering my grip on both his wrists, I drag his body over to the trunk. I open it and it’s not a pretty sight. In fact, it’s damn near laughable as I bend and maneuver his body into the trunk, but I succeed.

Slamming the trunk closed, the next order of business is opening the gate. I walk over to the control panel in the security booth. My finger hovers the button, not able to press down on itjust yet; already knowing what’s on the other side won’t be pretty.

You’ve come this far. Press the fucking button, Araceli.

My lids pinch closed, bracing myself for when my finger crashes down on the button. I work up the courage to do so and on cue, the gates crank open. Though the more their iron separates, the more anxious I feel, but I’ve gotten this far. Hell, I just killed someone, and a fan no less, to make it to the other side of this hellhole I used to call home. I can’t turn back now. Not if I want to write my perfect ending and get my necklace back… even if it will likely result in blood.

Before I leave the security booth, I flip the lock on the door before closing it so no one can get in. Knowing my stepdad, he has surveillance on the property and the last thing I need is a nosy wanderer stumbling across the empty booth, scrounging around, and discovering the footage.

I take a deep inhale, readying myself for what lays ahead as I drive through the open gates. As soon as I break the threshold, I look in the rearview mirror at the gates closing me in. I drive down the long stretch of gravel before heading to the main part of the property. A fork in the road presents itself with the graveyard in the middle. If I go left, I will pass the church—which has a path that leads straight to the house—but if I go right, I’d have to pass through a stretch of the graveyard.

I opt to go right down the wider, more scenic path, through the tombstones that line the unkempt grass. The uneven terrain doing a number on my tires, the guard’s body bumping in the trunk. Every thud and thump grates at my nerves more than the last, forcing me to slam on my brakes to make it stop.

Fuck this. I chose this way so I could avoid the nausea seeing the church gives me, but this is becoming too much. I get out of the car, walking around to the trunk, making sure it’s locked.

“I’ll be back for you later.” I pat the trunk before walking through the remainder of tombstones that lead the way to the house.

Weeds gnaw at my legs with each step as the sharp, overgrown grass blades prick at my skin through my pants. Last I heard, my stepdad wasn’t doing too well, but he’s always maintained the grounds himself, or had people to do it for him, so this is unexpected. But not as unexpected as the view of the front porch that has me stopping dead in my tracks.

Rows of carved pumpkins consume my vision. Jagged lines compromise hollowed out holes for eyes and an equally jagged and sinister line forms a smile on each, highlighted by a flickering candle inside. All misshapen, yet beautiful in their own way. I move closer, in awe since I’ve never seen the house like this…ever. Especially since the exterior of the house looks about as cared for as the property. Which is not at all.

Distracted by the scene before me, I brace myself for what will happen the moment I walk up those steps and knock on that door. The beauty before me will vanish and reality will set in. No amount of pumpkins on a fucking porch can, or will, erase that.

A few deep breaths in and out are what I need to give myself the nudge to head to the door. The porch steps still creak, same as they used to, but the music that vibrates beneath my feet, that flows loudly from inside to where I’m standing outside, isn’t what I expected. Harsh drums and even harsher lyrics leak through the barrier of siding, and it doesn’t sound anything like the usual hymns my stepdad was accustomed to poisoning our ears with growing up.

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